For Those in Peril
by tofsla
Summary: When Minerva retires, years from now, she will live in a cottage in Applecross. Poppy/Minerva, DH.


_Notes: A persistent image I wanted to work through. Poppy/Minerva._

* * *

When Minerva retires, years from now, she will live in a cottage in Applecross. Long and low and free from whitewash, its bare stone and grey slate nestle among the bracken and scrub that slopes down to the sea, half-invisible from the water. At night she will hear waves breaking on the shore only a dozen yards away—the accompanying music of her childhood.

She will not keep a cat, but will allow the neighbours to believe that she does. What they will make of Poppy's presence she cannot say, but it is her experience that people are generally more inclined to believe in elderly spinsters or tragically widowed friends than in romantic intimacy. And it is so easy for the young to believe that the elderly are sexless.

This last year she has thought of her cottage more than ever, although she is only sixty-two—really quite young.

"A herb garden," Poppy suggests. "Tucked behind the house, out of the wind."

"Hmm," Minerva says. "It could work. Yes, I think so." Clinging close to the back wall, a small piece of order. Eminently practical. Minerva has never cared much for cut flowers, and she learnt plants from her godfather, who wouldn't touch anything that didn't have a use beyond decoration. But Poppy might like something. Perhaps—she considers—Sweet Peas, trellised up the short south wall. Although she hasn't thought about gardening since she was a girl. Perhaps it wouldn't suit them. She doesn't remember. It all feels terribly far away.

They pretend to sit together in a relaxed, companionable sort of way. Minerva's eyes flick to the clock; Poppy's fingers stray to her wrist, to the fine gold band that rests there.

"I could curse that man," Poppy bursts out.

"You will do no such thing," Minerva says, sharp, although she has her own fantasies about what one might do to Severus Snape, should one happen to catch him alone on a dark night.

Poppy sighs. "Of course not."

Minerva relents, lays her hand over Poppy's, strokes her bony thumb in what she hopes are soothing small circles. She is not certain she has any sort of capacity to soothe left. It has never been a particular talent of hers.

"I feel sure the window frames will need replacing," she says. "It has been some time. Perhaps I should get that taken care of when spring comes."

"Oh, yes." Poppy takes a careful breath. "Rot is a terrible thing."

"I shall charm the new ones," Minerva says. "But my poor father, may he rest—well, it was a sensitive topic, naturally."

Poppy looks uneasy, as though Severus might burst through the door, the Carrows in tow, ready to condemn her for the implication. Yes, certainly, the walls may be listening, although she rather thinks not, not right now. But if Severus sodding Snape thinks to use her less than pure blood as a weapon against her then he is a hypocrite as well as a coward and a murderer.

Just think: there was a time when she felt sorry for the boy. And, later, a time when she rather liked him. Despite everything.

A cup of tea sits neglected on the table beside her, half cold, balanced on top of her equally neglected book. It is a Friday evening, but she drinks so rarely now, although goodness knows she could use it. Instead there are these endless cups of tea.

And what is the point, if she is to sit here all night and serve no purpose anyway. She flicks her wand in the direction of the dresser and sends the cupboard door flying open somewhat more violently than she intended, startling Poppy. The Loch Lundie is right at the front, and thank goodness for that; summoning charms are always preferable to testing the tolerance of one's knees in order to root through forests of bottles.

"Is that really." Poppy begins, rather primly, and trails off in the face of Minerva's expression.

"Yes," she says. "It is. Really."

She feels pleasantly defiant as she doses her tea with a quantity of firewhisky which is not precisely a regulation measure, and watches it begin to steam again.

Silence. Poppy is worrying at her own wrist again. Nervous disposition, Minerva thinks, which is all wrong; there is nothing nervous about Poppy. There ought not be, at any rate. It irritates her, makes her want to snap; tightens her fingers around her teacup and pulls the corners of her mouth reflexively downward. It's entirely unfair of her, of course. It's this stillness that does it. Forced inactivity when every mote of her magic, of her self, demands motion.

"It's very late," Poppy says. "They can't mean to be all night."

"They can," Minerva says. "Poppy, perhaps I ought to go."

"Not tonight," Poppy says. "Filius is more than capable. How does one buy food, up there?"

This part of the conversation has, by now, the quality of liturgy. These are words that have been worn hollow through repeated use, and filled with new meaning. "Owl order. Fishermen. And the Muggle village shop, naturally." Packets of biscuits wrapped in a thin film of plastic, tea in little paper sachets. Albus can never leave them alone. Could never.

"Yes, of course," Poppy says.

The future is their own personal belief system, and one tries one's best not to doubt.

They will each have their workrooms. Minerva will answer letters that have waited too long. She will finally edit and publish her work on sentience and transfiguration. She will sit in her chair by the front door in summer and feel the sun on her face, warm but not overwhelming with the breeze fresh from the sea, and find a stillness that is not forced but rather pleasant. Well-earnt. She will lie close against Poppy in bed at night, each with her own book, but of course they'll read the best parts out loud.

"Oh," Poppy says. She is already getting to her feet, urgent, and Minerva doesn't need to ask, doesn't need to look at the charmed bracelet to know. It's over, for tonight. "I'd best just go and—and see."

They hurry to the door, Minerva a step behind. "Poppy, you mustn't forget. The cabinet—if someone should come—"

"Of course I won't forget," Poppy says briskly. "I filled it today. Bandages and restoratives. And it isn't locked; I never lock it any more. You can be quite calm."

She smiles and presses a hasty kiss to the corner of Minerva's mouth.

"You'll get your turn tomorrow. Try to sleep."

"Yes," Minerva says. "You're quite right." But they both know she won't sleep until she's heard Poppy's report.

When she tries to think about her cottage like this, alone in her rooms, it becomes something else, not future but past: a storm from the sea and bells ringing the alarm, people running for the boats, and herself, ten years old, pressing her hands against the window-pane as she tries to make out the harbour lights around the bay. How she longed to be useful.

But she is not a child now. She refuses to feel helpless.

A tap of her wand against an attractive little needlework box on the table reverses the transfiguration to reveal a tight bundle of scrolls. She knows her notes on the castle very nearly by heart now, but there are certainly pieces of information she has not yet managed to connect buried in amongst them. It is simply a matter of examining them from every possible angle.

Later, when all the students are accounted for, Poppy will chase her to bed like a particularly stubborn patient. But she has a little time yet—and a great deal, as ever, to do.

[fin]


End file.
